Boats and Birds
by AnorexicWalrus
Summary: Although it can be seen as a happy occasion, England isn't so thrilled about it being America's birthday, especially when memories he misses attack him...and especially when the man of the hour himself turns up, and all it all goes pear-shaped.


_If you be my star,  
I'll be your sky.  
You can hide underneath me  
And come out at night,  
When I turn jet black  
And you show off your light.  
I live to let you shine.  
I live to let you shine._

_But you can skyrocket away from me,  
And never come back if you find another galaxy  
Far from here, with more room to fly.  
Just leave me your stardust to remember you by._

_If you be my boat,  
I'll be your sea.  
A depth of pure blue,  
Just to probe curiosity.  
Ebbing, and flowing,  
And pushed by a breeze.  
I live to make you free.  
I live to make you free._

_But you can set sail to the West if you want to,  
And past the horizon till I can't even see you;  
Far from here, where the beaches are wide.  
Just leave me your wake to remember you by._

_If you be my star,  
I'll be your sky.  
You can hide underneath me  
And come out at night,  
When I turn jet black  
And you show off your light.  
I live to let you shine.  
I live to let you shine._

_But you can skyrocket away from me,  
And never come back if you find another galaxy  
Far from here, with more room to fly.  
Just leave me your stardust to remember you by._

_Stardust to remember you by._

* * *

With one hand placed on the cold, white-washed windowsill, fingers rubbing absently at the texture of the splintered wood, and the other hand placed upon his thigh, England looked out of the window.

He looked, but he wasn't really seeing.

His eyes wondered elsewhere, into his memories.

_Engwand, it's a sunny day again._

He winced at the voice that made him smile once upon a time. Why was that angelic voice too painful to listen to anymore?

_Engwand, let's so play outside._

_Engwand, let's play pirates today._

_Engwand, I love you._

_Engwand._

_Engwand._

_Engwand._

England clicked his tongue and quickly snapped his head round, away from the window, away from those godforsaken memories, away from the pain.

Why did his angel bring him such pain?

He looked around the room, hoping for escape, but that wasn't any better.

_Engwand, can I sit in your chair?_

_Engwand, let's eat by the fireplace._

Why did everything remind him of that angel?

The sun that shone down on the worn, pea green chair which sat snuggly in the corner of the old room; the roaring fireplace that toasted the room until he thought he was going to melt away. All of it reminded him of that angel.

He got up, slowly and shakily, and hobbled to the kitchen. Perhaps some tea would soothe him? It usually did.

Another mistake however, as he entered the tiled kitchenette.

_Engwand, is it scones again today?_

He gasped heavily and supported himself on a nearby countertop, clutching at his swollen heart.

Why were these memories so vivid? It was as if the angel was still there, his voice ringing in his ears, his hand clutching at his blouse, his smile penetrating his aching chest.

With his hand still clutching at his swollen heart, England turned to look at the calendar on the kitchen countertop.

_4__th__ July_

_You used to be so big…_

England almost lost it then, but he managed to regain himself. He was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and he refused to be a snivelling wreck for some silly boy. He sniffed and staggered weakly to the bronze tea pot resting on the stove. He wiped at his moist eyes as he turned the stove on, heating the water within the pot. He then turned to his selection of tea bags. What would he have? Earl grey, Darjeeling, Assam?

As he was making his choice his eyes roved from the collection of tea bags up to the kitchen window. He looked out at the garden, bursting with colourful flora and fauna. He hadn't tended to it in a while. Perhaps this would be a good time to do so?

_Yo, Britain! Sorry to bother you in your green fingers mode, but I was wondering if you'd like to come to my party to…y'know…wish me a happy birthday?_

England clicked his tongue in distaste. _Happy birthday indeed! _He paused for a moment, thinking deeply as he looked out at the garden. Perhaps he shouldn't tend to it after all.

"_Why would you delude yourself by thinking I wanted to commemorate this day with you?" England snarled, tempted to lunge at that fool with the garden pliers._

"_Well, I just thought that it'd be fun." The fool had mumbled, shifting his feet across the cropped grass in discomfort, "And you're one of the people I'm closest too, if not the closest."_

"_We _were _close." England bit, trying to refrain from crushing the rose he cradled in his palm, "Not anymore."_

England was brought back to reality by the screaming of the tea pot as it pleaded to be taken off the scorching heat. England did so, shaking his head at himself, reprimanding himself mentally. However, he couldn't help that a couple of tears fell into his cup of tea as he stirred the cool milk and dry tea leaves and steaming water.

"Oh dear," he tried to chuckle although it only ended up getting caught in his aching throat, "it seems my tea is going to be a bit salty." He continued his attempt to laugh as he took his tea and ventured back into the living room.

He breathed out heavily, vexed with his current condition, as he sank into the pea green armchair by the fire; however, the tea soon warmed him internally, and the roaring fire did the same externally as it danced in its cage of bricks.

England, now slightly more relaxed, placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table, which proved to be another mistake. Right beside where he placed the cup and saucer was a golden frame which contained a picture. It was a picture of that fool, his angel. He was wearing his old pirate hat (although the hat was too big for his head, so it was slipping down and obscuring most of his face with the tinged cheeks and button nose and cerulean eyes) and he was wielding (or more like trying to lift) his beautifully crafted sword from his pirate days too.

_Someday I want to be just like you._

England traced the edges of the frame, brushing off some dust from it, before lifting up the picture and pulling it closer to him, gazing at it with a mixture of adoration and hurt in his crumpled expression. He traced the form of the child in the picture with his thumb, exhaling once again in longing.

"Just like me, hmm?" England spoke to the picture in a soft whisper, "You couldn't be further from it if you tried." Another tear fell onto the glass protecting the picture – the wonderful yet painful memory – and England hastily rubbed at where it had splattered. He sniffed once more as he rubbed at his pained emerald orbs, "It seems I have something in my eyes. Now that won't do at all, will it?" He continued to stare at the picture, as if it would answer him, and then he would chuckle at or reprimand the reply, and a conversation would ensue just like it always did. It was a stupid thing to wish for, but he just wanted to talk with that child once again, even if for a little while.

England suddenly jumped as the front door banged open overzealously, almost falling off its hinges, to reveal that fool, grinning like an idiot. England quickly shoved the picture under the striped cushion of the armchair, stuttering madly in shock and panic, "A-America! Didn't anyone t-teach you about bloody knocking first?"

America merely pouted at England's lack of enthusiasm upon seeing him, strolling over to where the older country was perched, "Dude, chill. It's not like I caught you jacking off or nothing."

England groaned in disgust, "Please do refrain from using double negatives and mentioning such vulgar pastimes as 'jacking off'." England made sure to press himself against the cushion more as America drew near, intent on never letting the boy see that picture and thinking that he was pining for him or anything.

"Whatever!" America waved off England's remark and dug his hands in his scruffy jean pockets, rocking to and fro on his heels, "Anyway, I didn't come here to get my etiquette corrected. I came here to invite you to my birthday party!" America withdrew his hands from his pockets and raised them in the air, probably hoping that England would follow suit.

"I'm sorry," England cocked his head questioningly, "you came here to what?"

"I know you heard me, man." America sighed, "You may be old, but your hearing still works." He resignedly dug his hands back into his pockets when he realised that no, England was not going to raise his hands in the air and jump on the coffee table and sing his praises.

"Oh, yes, I heard you quite clearly," England frowned, reaching for his tea for some support in this situation, "I just can't believe that we go through this same process every year and you still don't get it." He took a sip of the warm beverage, saddened slightly that it had cooled down since (_how long had I been staring at that picture?_), before continuing, "I hate today, America. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, the tea tastes wonderful, and yet I hate today."

He placed the cup back on the saucer and rested it on his thigh, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand in turn, "Now, why do you think that is?"

America groaned and bowed his legs, raising his arms as if a solution to his problems were going to drop into his open hands, "Britain, the revolutionary war was ages ago!"

"That it was." England replied disdainfully, "And yet I remember it as if it were just yesterday." America glared down at England at that moment, and England would be lying if he were to say that he wasn't at all intimidated by that glare. Those pools of blue seemed to turn as red as a raging fire in that instant. England remembered when those same eyes gazed at him endearingly, once upon a time.

"Oh, quit being a stodgy old man!" America huffed, pointing his finger at England as if to shame him, "Look at the good that came out of our separation. I mean, thanks to me you have McDonald's!"

"Which I refrain from consuming."

"And I also gave you Hollywood!"

"Which milks far too many of its crap films if you ask me."

"And I gave you awesome music as well!"

"Can you give me some examples, please?"

America laughed hysterically, running his hand through his golden hair in exasperation, "Oh, come _on_, Britain! Can't we put the past behind us and move along?"

"I'm afraid not." England sighed in disappointment, "You scarred me emotionally and, I dare say, I would be quite a fool if I were to forgive you so easily." He arose from his chair, hoping that the picture would remain masked by the cushion, and proceeded to the kitchen where he could turn on the tap to wash his remaining cold tea away and let the sound of the rushing water take America's voice down the drain with it.

"Please, man!" America begged. England could hear his footsteps following him to the kitchen. "I'm not asking too much! I just want you there with me on this day! You may hate it, but it is very special to me!"

England scoffed, "Yes, special because you finally managed to escape your overbearing brother-slash-father figure, hmm?" England almost threw the cup and saucer into the stainless steel sink, but managed to control himself.

"No, that's not why I-" America began, but England spun round quickly, framing his cynical eyes with his thick, furrowed brows.

"Well I don't see any other reason!" he snapped, his voice increasing in volume with every startled flicker of those cerulean orbs, "And why on bloody earth do you always, _always_ want me to wish you a happy birthday? It doesn't make bloody sense, you persistent git!"

England clicked his tongue, spinning round to busy himself with the task of washing the cup and saucer, muttering _"Incompetent fool"_ as he did. If only America would get the message and leave. Then everything could be more or less perfect again.

England angrily drenched the saucer in cold water that stung his fingers and rubbed at it thoroughly even though there wasn't an inch of a stain anywhere on it. He just needed something to take his mind off the clown who was, irritatingly enough, still standing behind him. He was probably putting on his infamous kicked puppy face. England wanted to laugh at how pathetic America was sometimes, but he had to continue diligently with his silent treatment.

_Go away, go away, go away, _England pleaded with America in his mind, _Please, just go away._

Unfortunately for him, America did the opposite.

He came up behind England and hugged him tightly around the waist, and then rested his head on the older man's back. England just froze in shock. He had not been expecting for this event to occur at all. What on earth was happening anyway?

"Do you really want to know why I want you with me on this day?" he asked, though his voice was a soft mumble as his face was pressed into England's green sweater vest. England felt the vibrations of his familiar voice against him rather than heard him.

"Uh, well I…" England mentally grasped around for vocabulary to aid him, but found none in his utter shock. Seriously, what was happening?

America snickered quietly behind England, making the man fret more, before quietening down completely and just standing there holding his old brother. He was silent for quite a while (scarily so considering that the enthusiastic lad never managed to shut up) but England could feel the boy's heart beat against his back, and feeling such a thing made the tempo of his own heart increase.

And then America finally broke the intense silence.

"It's because I love you, Arthur."

England's swollen heart panged. It felt as if it had cut free from the binding veins and arteries and begun fluttering around his chest like a butterfly, desperate to escape. He realised that he hadn't heard those words from those lips for a long time; centuries perhaps. And now here they were in an awkward situation and he had just uttered such words as if he said them all the time and as if England should _know _that he felt that way. England couldn't help but smile then. It was so nice to know that his brother still loved him, as he did him.

"Do you mean it?" England asked, beginning to fear that this was some sadistic trick the American was playing.

"I would never lie about something like this." America replied in gusto, and the older nation smiled confidently in relief.

"I love you too, Alfred." England delighted in the words that rolled off his tongue like a child gleefully rolling down a grassy hill, laughing all the way.

America suddenly spun him around to stare him dead in the face, the beaming expression on his own face full of curiosity and hope.

"You do?" he asked, surprised by how easily England confessed.

"Why, of course!" England laughed gallantly, "Of course you can be insufferable at times, but otherwise I treasure you." England's smile grew wider yet as America's did, and he was glad about what had happened, no matter how much he hadn't been suspecting it. Now maybe he could actually have wonderful conversations with America – oh, the wonderful things he would say! He had missed speaking to him, what with how desperately he had avoided and ignored the boy since the revolutionary war. He thought America had hated him, but it appeared that this was not so. Yes, perhaps they could finally be happy in each other's company again.

However, just as England hadn't expected the arms around his waist or the head against his back or the confession elating his heart, he didn't expect what was to come next.

As England smiled up at America, lost in ecstasy, he didn't realise the man's hand come up to rest upon his cheek or the other hand securing itself around his waist. He didn't notice the look in the American's eye or how the colour of his cheeks changed. He didn't notice any of this until he thought that America's face was getting alarmingly closer. Perhaps too close.

"Um, America?" England coughed, but America just moved his hand from his cheek and used it to tilt England's chin upwards until their faces, each wearing a different expression, were level.

England couldn't believe it. America wasn't…he didn't think that he was…yes, it appeared he did.

England had no time to protest as America's lips landed upon his. He did his best to express his thoughts about the situation, but his words were muffled by the kiss. He was left staring at that fool's face with his flushed cheeks and closed eyes behind those glasses. England began to doubt himself. When America had said that he loved him, how did he mean it? England interpreted it as how a brother would love a brother. It seems that America, once again unexpectedly, meant it the other way.

England desperately grabbed at anything and everything, trying to find something, anything, to help him get out of this sticky spot. His hand, after a while of mental scrabbling, found the saucer left in the sink. Without a moment's hesitation England grabbed it and smacked America in the face with it, breaking the kiss.

America backed off, leaning against the opposite counter for support, gasping in shock as he rubbed at his cheek which was now red for a new reason. England leant against the opposite counter, staring at the shattered saucer on the floor with pieces of its design strewn all over the wooden floor.

It was ruined.

He slowly looked back up to stare in shock at America who stared back with confusion written all over the creases in his face.

It was most certainly ruined.

"Arthur, wha…why did you…"

England ran his shaking hand through his dusty blonde hair, returning his gaze to the shattered saucer.

"I just…that wasn't…what I…" he swallowed the lump rising in his throat, looking up to look into those cerulean pools again with accusation and misunderstanding in his own emerald ones, "What on earth were _you _doing anyway?" His confusion was finally coming to an end, only to be replaced by a growing anger, "What the bloody hell was that stunt?"

America frowned in shared confusion, "Well you said you loved me, and I love you, so…it's normal for two people in love to kiss."

England paused in astonishment. His suspicions were confirmed, and he groaned in frustration at how bloody downhill this was going, like a child rolling down a hill of nettles and thistles, screaming and cursing all the way down.

"When I returned your love, Alfred, I meant it in a…a brotherly way." England tried to explain, hoping that America wouldn't wring his neck at the end of it, "I could never…it's wrong. I mean, I raised you for God knows how many years, and if I were to…if we were…" England sighed and shook his head in enragement with himself for thinking, hoping, believing that things could go back to the way they were, "Do you understand me, Alfred?"

At first it looked like America didn't understand, and England wondered if he was going to have to sit him down and serve him tea and give him a long, awkward talking to. But, soon enough, understanding appeared on America's face in a pained expression. That pain soon turned into fury though, and he glared at England as if all that was currently happening was his fault, just like he used to do when he didn't get his way or wasn't given the meal he wanted or was told to brush his teeth and go to bed.

"Yeah, I understand." America snarled, getting up from the counter and standing tall above England, those furious eyes boring into the smaller man, making him wish he could shrink and dive into the drain and be washed away and just be anywhere other than there, "I was foolish to think that you…that we could…" he laughed menacingly, and England swallowed his rising fear, "You know what, Arthur? Never mind. Screw my birthday, okay? Just screw it."

America continued to laugh in that way that England had never heard him laugh before. It was a laugh that made it seem like it would dissolve into crying at any time. America proceeded to walk out of the kitchen, through the living room, and back to the front door, still open from his grand entrance. It seemed strange now that he entered in such a way considering how he was presently leaving.

England flinched as America turned back around and stared him down once more even though he certainly felt small enough already, "And do you want to know why I left you, Arthur? Has it really not crossed your mind, even after what just happened?" England dared to shake his head. America pressed his forehead with his index and fore finger, looking down at his rugged red converse in disbelief. "Sure, I didn't much appreciate the way you were ruling me, that's the main reason, but…but I also thought that I might have had a chance to…to be your lover; not your brother."

England looked down as well now at his own socked feet, hanging his head in shame.

"I was so sick of being your brother, you know. I loved you so much more than you knew; so much more than a brother would usually love a brother." England winced as the words came pouring out of America's mouth, "And you know what, Arthur?" England shook his head again, wishing that he knew the answers to all the questions being thrown at him. He could usually be considered a smart person, but not when it came to emotions. He had to be a heartless fiend when he was a pirate after all, and his heart closed off further more once America left him.

America exhaled wearily and looked up at England's hunched form, wishing that things had gone better.

"I still do love you, Arthur. That's what."

England was astonished. He had just emotionally torn this man apart and shot him down, or so it seemed, and yet he was still loved by him? Despite all his obvious faults? In spite of the fact that he had just smacked a tea saucer over his cheek? He quickly jerked his head up to look into America's eyes of blue and search in those deep oceans for truth and sincerity.

Alas, those eyes were no longer there. America was no longer there. He had vanished like the sun behind the murky clouds.

England stared at where America had been stood, hoping that he would reappear again like the sun usually did when the clouds dispersed. No such luck. He reached out, just in case America had turned invisible by the means of some sort of magic, and then he would become visible again and say _"April fools"_, and England would laugh and tell him that it was July already and April had long gone, and speaking of which he would indeed love to give him a birthday blessing, and America would smile jovially and ask _"Is that so?"_ and he would of course nod his head and…

England cursed himself for imagining such a foolish thing. Even though America had definitely long gone, England continued to stand there, even as a few splatters of rain from those murky clouds obscuring the sun flew through the open doorway and landed on the wooden floor and England's drooped form.

"Happy birthday…" England whispered, but his blessing garnered no reply.

* * *

**Author's notes: Well, isn't that tragic? And it's also tragic that I feel so pressured, for two of my friends have told me to be creative and not do the usual 4th of July USUK fic. Alas, it seems I haven't been very...well...individualistic. It's quite an oridinary story, really. And yet, it is one of my favourites which I have written. Funny.  
If you couldn't tell, this was pretty much inspired by _Boats and Birds_ by _Gregory and the Hawk_.  
But most importantly, even if this was somewhat sad, happy birthday, America! Hope you have a good one~  
(Also, I may add a second part, if I see it as appropriate. Would you people like a second part, or is it fine here?)  
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated!  
Thank you and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: America and England belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


End file.
